The girl from No Man’s Land would have looked a downtrodden prostitute in her tattered skirts were it not for her walk. Hers was not the gait of desperation. She had the long stride strut of a man.
One glimpse and his body became a traitor to him yet again, his longing for her more brutal than ever.
The Wanderer didn’t realize he was following her until a large black carriage caught her attention.
A quartet of horses pulled their burden with a high-stepping trot, the open box exposing the four noblemen inside.
The cape of one soared outside the carriage, its extravagant length sweeping along the wharf. The gentleman’s face was hidden with the likeness of a skull, and the Wanderer realized it must be All Hallows Eve. All the occupants were in costume, their faces covered in masks.
But their voices were loud, their accents rendered uncouth from drink.
The carriage stopped before the most raucous tavern on the wharf, the sounds of merrymaking ringing from inside.
The Wanderer raised his brows.
Surely the gentlemen wouldn’t dream of going inside. This was the place for those who lived and worked on the wharf, not for the guests of a fancy dress ball. But the garbled discussion about the fun that could be found on the wharf confirmed they intended to do exactly that.
The Wanderer shook his head and snorted.
The noblemen looked absurd stumbling out of the carriage, tripping over the capes cascading to their ankles. When they lifted their masks, they uncovered bloated features and bleary eyes. But the tallest of the four was the last to remove his, the grinning violet demon replaced with a handsome face.
The Wanderer immediately recognized the type of noble he resented the most.
He suspected this was a man whose pride exceeded his ability. Even his beauty betrayed that kind of vanity. Sharp cheekbones sliced the midline of his face, full lips curled in derision, his chin at a high tilt. His dark brown eyes were empty when he looked at his friends, his contempt for them thinly veiled. But he still followed them into the tavern.
The Wanderer saw the girl watching them as well.
Her eyes glittered as she stared after the billowing cape of the handsomest nobleman, her thick teeth gleaming when she smiled. She didn’t hesitate before she followed.
The Wanderer’s throat grew tight and the churning in his belly surged the taste of bitterness to his mouth.
“Go home…”
The call of his heart was endearing in its gentleness.
He tried to capture the lightness of spirit he had from his vision of going back to the village.
But the memory of the girl was seared into his flesh and the thought of her with the arrogant nobleman made him burn. The Wanderer found himself in front of the tavern before he knew where he’d gone. His stomach clenched and the throbbing of his heart was agony. He tried to will himself to turn around and go home.
Instead, he pushed through the doors.
The revelry inside knocked the wind out of him.
Seamen were everywhere, both fishermen and pirates. There were also vagabonds, conmen, craftsmen, and merchants. All of them drinking together in the riotous brotherhood of men, the only women in the tavern were serving wenches and prostitutes.
The former were comely with blouses laced up their middles, generous breasts pushed against their necklines, arms muscular from carrying mugs of ale, most holding three to a hand. Others carried snifters of high spirits, their balance impeccable as they held their trays high and pushed through the crowd. The wenches were adept at avoiding unwanted touches, leaving room for the night ladies to move in.
The prostitutes’ faces were garish from powder and rouge, their flimsy gowns cut low to the waist. They stalked for the amorous embrace, their sharp eyes prowling for the look of lust, a mouth turned down from hidden sadness, boredom crossing one face in the company of friends. Those were the signs the night ladies sought out before sidling near their men and smiling with a suggestive wink.
The Wanderer couldn’t move at first.
The shouting and singing merged into a loud buzz ringing in his ears, his nose assailed with the smells of sweat, liquor, and cheap perfume.
Then the mass of bodies became a rolling sea that drew him into its storm, and he found himself winding through the crowd.
The Wanderer was grateful nobody was in costume, for that would have been too much to withstand. He was surprised to find an empty stool at the bar. Before long, he had his seat and a frothing pint before him, leaving him free to scan the room.
The fancy dress quartet was easy to find.
The florid tavern keeper kept them separate from the mêlée, settling them at a large round table on the stage and gesturing to the prettiest of his wenches to serve them.
She seemed cheerful with her dimpled cheeks and a round face framed with copper curls. But she had a taste for the vulgar.
The noblemen roared when she pulled a match from her cleavage and struck it against her teeth to light their cigars. The stoutest of them smacked her bottom, chortling at the loathing that marred her features.
The wench made her way to the counter and waited until she was loaded with snifters and mugs. Then she disappeared with her tray into the latrine, smiling when she came out and returned to the table onstage. Her tone was playful as she urged her honored guests to throw the spirits down their throats, for there were more to come. She smirked after they drained their snifters and bowed with a low curtsey.
The Wanderer laughed with everybody else in the tavern.
But the noblemen had no idea of the crude joke played on them.
Revelers cheered the feisty wench, tossing coins on her tray and pushing notes down her cleavage. The tavern keeper waited with raised brows as she made her way through the crowd. He placed more drinks on her tray and pointed to the stage, but his severity relented with the grin he couldn’t suppress.
The wench made a show of a loud sigh with longing gaze to the latrine. But her revenge was enough and she sashayed to her premier table.
Finally, the Wanderer spotted the girl from No Man’s Land leaning against the back wall of the stage.
She grinned when she looked at the serving wench delivering the fresh round of drinks. She had appreciated the prank as much as everybody else in the tavern.
But the girl still planted herself in the line of vision of the handsome nobleman, making herself a caricature of provocation with her elbows hooked around the railing and exaggerating the arch of her back.
With her beggarly garments and disheveled hair, the pose should have been ludicrous.
At first, the Wanderer shook his head, embarrassed for her. He wasn’t surprised when the nobleman glanced at her and flicked his eyes away, his mouth curled in a sneer. He was legions above this girl in his station in life. He knew it and didn’t bother trying to hide it with genteel modesty.
But his hauteur didn’t affect the girl in the least. She continued her vigil.
The Wanderer frowned.
Her intent was clear.
But her eyes were every bit as cold staring down the handsome gentleman as when she had looked at the Wanderer. When the nobleman glanced her way again, she grinned with a hint of disdain. An expression her target recognized.
The nobleman scowled and turned away. He even made an effort to converse with his friends. But the girl had gotten under his skin. And his company grew more tedious with each round of drinks.
The Wanderer knew the handsome nobleman felt that gaze penetrating him from the tension in his back and the rise of his shoulders.
But the nobleman couldn’t resist the lure of her stare and looked back at the girl again.
Her grin had spread into a smile, her large teeth gleaming. A spark of fear lit up his dark brown eyes for a moment, and the handsome face paled.
The smirk disappeared from his face when the girl threw her head back and laughed. He turned towards his friends again, but his determination to ignore the girl didn’t last long. After a few minutes of trying to engage with the drunken louts around him, the nobleman looked back at her.
Her blue eyes glittered and she leaned her head to one side, her chin tilted in much the same way as his.
His ale suddenly distasteful to him, the Wanderer struggled to get the liquid down his throat. It wouldn’t be long before the nobleman succumbed and left his friends to go to her, his fascination more apparent each time he turned her way.
He had to hand it to the girl. He had never witnessed the arrogant seduced through insolence. But the thought of the girl with the nobleman left the Wanderer seething. His fingers were white gripping his mug, and he downed the bitter ale until there was none.
The Wanderer hadn’t noticed the drunkard slumped next to him until the other hiccoughed, the spasm jerking his elbow into the Wanderer’s side. The stranger mumbled a garbled apology, glanced at him with reddened eyes, then his head bobbed to his mug.
Irritation swelled inside the Wanderer.
The raucous noise and putrid scent of spilled ale, watching the woman he desired seduce another and being elbowed by a stranger were more than he could tolerate.
Deciding he’d had enough, he slid off his stool.
“That one’s back in town,” the drunkard muttered. “She’s the devil, she is.”
The Wanderer stopped and peered at the man slouched over his mug. He wasn’t facing the stage, but instinct told him the drunkard spoke of the girl he followed.
“Pardon me, Citizen,” he said, touching the slumped shoulder and pointing towards the stage. “Do you know that girl?”
The drunkard’s head jerked up and his eyes cleared for a moment as he looked between the Wanderer and the girl. His face was white.
“Hell no!” he shouted. “And you don’t need to know Ella Bandita either!”
The drunkard slapped him hard on the chest before slithering off his stool and weaving through the crowd, shouting at the foolhardy lust of stupid young men.
But the Wanderer hardly noticed.
The room started to spin at the sound of her name. His vision blurred and his knees buckled. The Wanderer gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself, the shaking in his thighs beyond his control.
Ella Bandita. Of course, that’s who the girl was from No Man’s Land.
The Bard’s stories meshed with images of the girl from the woods, intertwining until his mind was a kaleidoscope of memory and legend.
The Wanderer held his breath and prayed she had not heard. He looked towards the stage.
The girl was staring at him.
Even from a distance, the Wanderer saw that muscle twitching in her jaw.
